Man maketh a death which Nature never made.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.

Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.

Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.

There buds the promise of celestial worth.

'T is impious in a good man to be sad.

Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.